


Mycroft Forgets

by MycroftsGoldfishGal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, BAMF Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Brother Feels, Doctor John Watson, Gen, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock To The Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftsGoldfishGal/pseuds/MycroftsGoldfishGal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes wakes up with amnesia and Sherlock is there: a scene from a case that could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft Forgets

 

He opened his eyes and he waited. White noise filled his ears, his senses, and he blinked away the blurriness of morning.

 

He still did not remember.

 

He flexed his hands and looked down at them, and how he lay perfectly on the bed, flat on his back, almost like a military man, like someone who was used to waking quickly, jumping into action. The sheets beneath him were soft with age, and he wondered if his sheets at his own home were this soft. He'd been told his house was rather majestic, but that it was not... currently a very safe place for him to go.

 

The door swung open and he dragged his gaze up from his own bandaged body, his ribs still sore with injuries he acquired in... some kind of attack. No one had shared the details, and he had not asked. He didn't want to be told. He wanted to remember on his own.

 

“You're up,” the tall, dark haired man he'd met days before said, bringing a tray into his room, complete with toast and jam and tea. “Eat.”

 

He peered down at it, sniffing. He lifted the tea and took a sip, blinking in surprise. “Excellent,” he murmured.

 

The man frowned. “You said my tea was fine yesterday.”

 

“I lied,” he said, and he felt himself smile, just a bit. This man brought a warmth to his chest. Well, it made sense. The man, he'd been told, was his brother. “This is much better.”

 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. He stood, rather stiffly, next to the bed wearing the same slacks and purple shirt he'd been wearing for two days. “Yes. Well. John joined us.”

 

Mycroft pushed himself up so he could lean against the pillows. He sipped more of his tea. He tried to remember, searched every dark corner of his mind for the name John. It was a common name, he knew that. But no, he did not remember a John. “A friend?”

 

Sherlock nodded, a jerky gesture. “We can trust him above all others. He won't give away our location. He... assists me on cases.” Sherlock stared at the toast and frowned. “Eat. The doctor told me you have to eat.”

 

“Were you always so concerned?” Mycroft found himself asking, because he sensed... not. The man's body language said that there were problems between them, distance. And yet, the man had been there, taking in Mycroft before he was even awakened, the police having hidden him here, in Sherlock's... wherever they were. The fields outside were silent besides the sound of birds and the occasional buzzing of bee hives he could see from the bedroom window. It was a beautiful place. Was it Sherlock's home? No. This man was a city man, he could tell from his eyes, somehow, and the way he walked. The fluffy quilt on the bed and the floral wallpaper said this was a woman's cottage. Perhaps it was a friend's? They were in hiding, and a woman's home in the countryside was probably not a bad location. He lifted the toast to his mouth and took a small bite. It wasn't burnt like it had been the day before. This John was a miracle, he thought, as his stomach growled in appreciation.

 

Sherlock huffed. “I've never needed to be.” He looked down and Mycroft could see his jaw flex as he grit his teeth. “Your position is powerful.”

 

“As you said. I work with... spies? Government secrets?” Mycroft strained to remember the day before, but at least it was clearer than the one before that, when he'd woken in this place, panicked, tears in his eyes, in a cold sweat and his chest filled with stabbing pain. Each day was a bit clearer. He supposed that also had to do with the gradual lessening of his morphine intake. The nurse who came once a day, looking suspicious and very governmental, said that he should take more, but he preferred a bit of pain to the fog in his head.

 

“You don't work with them, you run them, you're their boss. You advise the Queen,” Sherlock said, “And the King.” He frowned then, shaking his head, eyes darting back and forth as if reading something. “No. No, we have no King, currently.”

 

“You're using memory techniques,” Mycroft said, before he could think about what that meant. “I can see it. Your eyes. You're... very intelligent.”

 

“You are as well,” Sherlock said, and he grinned then. “You're the only person who may actually be cleverer than me, although I'd never admit it before and I never will again. So remember that at least.”

 

Mycroft chuckled and his rib ached. He must have flinched because Sherlock's gaze flicked to the morphine drip beside the bed and he frowned. “You should take more.”

 

“I don't want it,” Mycroft spat, suddenly flush, his heart beating fast. The idea of morphine, more of that disgusting poison, in his veins, clouding his mind, “I hate it!”

 

Sherlock's eyes widened.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I've no idea why I react so... strongly to the suggestion.”

 

Sherlock's lips turned up again, but this time his grin was sorrowful, and was that guilt Mycroft saw in his brother's eyes? “I do,” he said. He cleared his throat and shrugged, as if his next words were inconsequential. “I was an addict, years ago. Opium, cocaine, heroine, prescription drugs...You helped me... forced me to get clean.”

 

Mycroft blinked twice at that, his mind racing, reaching for this memory. His brother? His little brother? This man who seemed so... nervous about their relationship, this man who seemed to feel so guilty about what had happened to him, this man who had taken him in and protected him... this man had fallen into drug abuse? But he seemed so strong, so kind. “And how did I do that?”

 

Sherlock smiled then, a real smile. “You told me you'd introduce me to the police if I was sober, let me solve cases. I couldn't resist.”

 

“You like solving puzzles,” Mycroft said, and the words felt right.

 

Sherlock's smile softened. “Yes. You do as well. We have contests, actually.” He hopped up then, suddenly excited, eyes wide. “Ah! Yes!” He dashed from the room, the door slamming behind him.

 

Mycroft stared after him, jaw agape. “Hello?” He called after him. He would worry, would be concerned, but this, too, felt rather normal.

 

Sherlock burst back into the room with a flair of drama, throwing himself onto the bed next to his brother. “Budge over,” he grunted, propping himself up against the pillows as well, not touching him, but sitting close, like two young boys.

 

Mycroft relaxed as the man sat next to him, feeling somewhat safer now that the wall between them seemed to be lowering. He sensed it took a long time to get close to this man, his strange brother, and had been worried that whatever had happened between them in the past would ruin any chance he had for friendship with the only person who seemed to truly care.

 

Sherlock tossed a cell phone into Mycroft's hands, grinning widely. “Tell me about the owner.”

 

Mycroft huffed, feeling his cheeks flush in anger. “I can't, I don't remember anything, why must you-”

 

“SOLVE it,” Sherlock insisted. “Memory has nothing to do with intelligence.”

 

And Mycroft could say nothing to that, nothing but stare into his baby brother's eyes and feel the challenge radiating from him. And he could do it, he thought. He could make his brother proud. He peered down at the phone, rotating it in his hand. “It's an old model, but it was originally rather expensive, judging by the company name.” He turned it on, shaking his head. “Hardly charged, and there are scratches all over it, the person who owns it does not take care of it. They didn't purchase it.” As he spoke, the words came faster, and his heart began to race again, and it all just made so much SENSE. It was sense. It was easy. It was real. It was LOGIC. “One of the owners was an alcoholic, judging by the scratches around the USB port, but it was probably the previous one, as there are fresher ones on the rest of the body, probably from change or keys in a pocket. The inscription on the back... it was a gift, but it has been re-gifted, most likely due to a relationship ending.” He blinked at that, unsure as to why, but it simply... made sense.

 

Sherlock beamed at him now, his grin so wide his eyes squinted with it. “It's John's phone. His sister's originally.”

 

“Sister?” Mycroft huffed at the name on the charger. “Lesbians. They disrupt my statistics.”

 

“I'll be sure to tell her,” a voice said from the doorway.

 

Mycroft looked up and saw a rather short man there wearing the ugliest mustard-colored jumper Mycroft thought he'd ever seen, and he couldn't even remember any others. The man entered the room and wrapped his arms around his own chest self-consciously, walking over to Sherlock's side of the bed and smiled down at him, his own eyes squinting with it.

 

“How are you feeling?” the man asked, looking then at Mycroft with concern in his drawn-together eyebrows. “I know there's a nurse, but I'm a doctor, so if you'd like-”

 

“I don't trust that idiot nurse,” Sherlock said, “She is useless. John will take care of you from now on.” He grinned then, up at the blond-haired man and spoke again, his voice just a bit gentler. “He is an excellent doctor. One of the best. You're in good hands.”

 

John flushed, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning red. “Yes, well, I'm happy to help. And I'll be helping him work, so he won't be going after this bastard alone.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I couldn't handle it myself.”

 

Mycroft tilted his head and watched the two men. So this was the man who owned the phone, the friend of his brother's. Although... friend seemed a bit loose of a word, considering the way they leaned into each other, as if magnetically drawn.

 

“John,” Mycroft said, and the man looked at him with a grin, and Mycroft could read the gentleness in his eyes, as well as the fierceness. “Thank you. I attempted to dissuade him from his ridiculous insistence on assisting the police in the investigation, but he will not be moved.”

 

“You're the one who sent me on half of my dangerous cases abroad,” Sherlock said with a huff, standing and shoving his hands into his pockets. “I am perfectly capable of catching the man who attempted to kill my brother.”

 

“And I'm perfectly capable of keeping him safe. Don't worry. I'd never let anything happen to him.” John finished, nodding at Mycroft. “But for now, we'll let you rest.” He tugged on Sherlock's arm and led him to the door. “You, too, Sherlock, I can tell you've hardly slept.”

 

“I don't need-” Sherlock began as he was pulled out of the room. They shut the door behind them and Mycroft could just hear their words. “-sleep, I need to work-”

 

“-You need to sleep,” John replied, and there was a silence, a silence of three seconds, and Mycroft wondered if it had been filled with a kiss. “And then we'll work on the case.”

 

“One hour,” Sherlock mumbled.

 

“Three,” John said, and his voice was firm.

 

Mycroft lay back and shut his eyes again. Yes, he did feel tired. His body needed rest. And for now he could relax. The doctors said if he did, if he rested and let his body heal, his memory would return. And until then he felt... safe. His brother and his brother's – boyfriend? Partner? - would look after him. He wasn't alone.

 


End file.
